The hard edge of the handgun nudged behind Doyle’s ear. Maguire’s voice lightened into ridicule.
“Well, well, isn’t that a good one? Here we all are looking for something and this fellow knowing all along. Isn’t that handy? So all we have to do now is ask our good friend Mr. Doyle here and we’re all in business. Isn’t that simple? Isn’t life just wonderful? To think it was your dear old brother-in-law who I was going to ask and here we are with the man who knows it all the time!”
The revolver tapped Doyle’s neck twice, coming to rest at the base of his skull.
“Or does he know I wonder? Does he know any fucking thing at all? Perhaps I should blow a hole in this old head, let some air in, see what’s going on in there.”
A snort of mirthless humour escaped Maguire.
“I wonder, what is it we’re after? Do you know? You do, don’t you? Your dear brother-in-law has some money belonging to us, old friend. We want it. Where is it?”
There was silence.
“Where is it?”
Doyle tried to speak. Words failed him. He swallowed, fear of the gun at his head numbing his brain.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cullen squatted in the porch hatchway. His eyes smarted from trying to see in the dark. Gustav’s voice came in snatches from the stern, talking to his crew. It sounded as if he was trying to convince them of something. Cullen remembered what Elaine had said. They were not his usual band of cut throat rabble, but more ordinary fishermen. Maybe they had misgivings.
One of his legs began to ache and he shifted his weight, straightening up a bit. Even in the dark he could see Gustav’s big figure at the end of the boat. Only one of the others was visible, the other two behind the lower part of the wheelhouse.
Keeping his eyes of Gustav, Cullen crept up behind stacked ropes and a winch. Gustav was gesticulating, becoming impatient. His voice rose and he began to swear. The fisherman closest to him started to speak, protesting petulantly. Gustav swung away from him, paced three steps, stopped and turned to face them again. In an angry voice he spoke to them. The man had gained courage from his first protest and spoke loudly.
Cullen could only catch odd words, the French was too fast. As the excitement rose, the fisherman made a short statement and turned to his colleagues for support. Emboldened, the others came into Cullen’s view.
Gustav swore, took a long stride forward, raised an arm and swatted the first man like a fly. The other two leaped to his aid, picking the man up from his half-kneeling position. Gustav took a step to where they were and stood over them like an ogre, threatening them in a torrent of words. Slowly the fallen man got up, wiping his face. He muttered in reluctant tones to Gustav, who roared back. The three of them set to work on something at their feet, lifting it. Cullen wasn’t sure what it was, but thought it could be a dinghy of some sort. They moved it over to the stern rail and laid it on top, then pushed it in the water. It must be a dinghy, Cullen decided. He wondered whether to approach Gustav or not. Clearly he would not have too much to fear from the others. They were definitely not the usual material he would have expected Gustav to have on his trawler. On the other hand, who could be sure? They might argue among themselves, but unite against a common enemy. He stayed where he was.
They had finished their work and were gathered at the rail, watching the dinghy float in the water. Gustav roared an order. One of the men moved quickly and picked up another object from the deck. Another climbed up and over the stern. A shouted conversation followed. The man with the object — Cullen saw it was an outboard engine — lifted it over to the dinghy. So, someone was going ashore.
They were near land now — maybe a mile from the rock headland running west from the harbour. For a few minutes, the shouting and ordering carried on, then it ceased as the man climbed back on board the trawler. Gustav dismissed them with a few brief words. They went below through the door under the wheel-house. Cullen saw Gustav go up the steps to the wheel-house. Moving backwards, keeping his eyes on Gustav, Cullen felt his way back into the hatch from which he had come. He wondered whether he should approach the Frenchman directly or take him by surprise. The more of what he saw was going on and, seeing Maguire was involved, the less he thought of the chances of negotiation with Gustav. The Frenchman was obviously feeling the drinks. He was in a drunken rage, annoyed with going back to Ireland, annoyed with everyone and everything. He would see Cullen as the cause of all his trouble. No, it was safer, Cullen decided to assume enmity on Gustav’s part, and to see what he could do by force.
He would have to be careful. In Gustav’s current mood and condition, he was likely to do anything. Cullen thought of the heartless treatment Gustav had given to Elaine. The man was dangerous.
A noise interrupted his thoughts. Elaine. He could just make her out against the bright paint. Her coat was pulled tight at the waist. He was about to ask her what she was doing, when she did the one thing he did not want her to do. Her hand moved to the wall and the entire corridor blazed in light as her finger hit the switch.
Cullen flattened himself against the side of the hatch. His head turned instinctively and his eyes fell on the wheel-house. Gustav had put the light on there almost at the same time that it had gone on in the corridor. Cullen didn’t wait, didn’t pause, didn’t tell Elaine to switch it off and stay down. His legs tensed and he dived from the hatch. He rolled to the side of the deck and hunched behind a thick coil of rope. Too late.
The Frenchman was looking, already drawing up the windscreen, poking the barrel of a large handgun through it. Cullen couldn’t stay where he was. It was too open. Two roars flashed from the gun in Gustav’s hand. The hatch shuddered and splinters of wood flew. One of the bullets zinged off in a long ricochet from a metal object on the deck. Now Cullen knew exactly where he stood with Gustav.
He stayed down. Another roar. The rope in front of him shook and he heard the slug thud into a bulwark behind him. He raised his head, his gun held out front, and loosed three rounds at the cabin. The glass shattered and he heard Gustav yell, then the shout from his own throat as he rolled back to the centre of the deck. He lay between the forward mast and the derrick. The light was still blazing from the port hatchway.
“Stay down!” he shouted to Elaine, hoping she would hear him.
“Gustav!” he shouted.
He would talk with him, tell him where the money was, even lead him to it. He’d take his chances then on getting away with Elaine.
“Gustav!” he shouted again.
He was about to shout once more when he saw the shadow in the holes where the hatchway had been splintered by the bullets.
Cullen drew in his breath. The warning was beginning to form in his lungs as she came out to the deck. The light was behind her, showing her figure perfectly. Her head and shoulders came into clear view as he felt the first shiver of vibration from his voice, then the sudden and final half of his scream when Gustav’s .45 roared again. Elaine shuddered and jerked, then whipped around as if pushed by the shoulders, her hair flying up in the violence of her fall. She hit the deck in a graceless heap, her head banging loosely off the mast beside Cullen. She did not move.
For a moment Cullen couldn’t breathe. He looked at the body in front of him, the coat thrown open in the fall, revealing bare legs and panties underneath. She lay just off the main beam of light falling in a yellow square on the wooden deck.
“Steven?” shouted Gustav.
It was part question, part challenge. Gustav must have seen the body fall. He had time to aim carefully when he saw her coming from the stairs. Cullen realised that Gustav had no idea who he had shot. He wondered if Elaine knew he would shoot her, even wanted him to do it.
“Steven?” shouted Gustav again.
The challenge was stronger, but the question was still there.
Cullen pressed himself against the mast, well-hidden in the heavy working equipment. Slowly he eased his head around the big span to look at the wheel-house. The man’s ha
nds were resting on the window frame, the glass jagged and sharp where Cullen had shot it away. He could see the bulk of the .45 clearly in Gustav’s right hand. He had three shots left in the Webley. He would have to get in fast, finish Gustav off. He remembered the three men who had gone below decks. They were keeping low — they must have heard Gustav shout. They weren’t rushing up to give assistance.
“Gustav!” Cullen shouted.
For a moment there was silence, then Gustav answered. Cullen hadn’t realised how close they were to each other.
“Is that you, Steven? You are shot? You are wounded? Are you in pain?”
Gustav paused for a moment.
“I can help you. I will help your pain. Your wound will need attention, Steven. Come out. Come on out where I can see you. Throw your gun away. Let me help you.”
The voice sounded sympathetic, comforting, concerned.
“No, Gustav. I’m not shot.”
He waited for a moment for the words to sink in, for Gustav’s attention to be fully focussed on what he was saying. He knew the Frenchman would be trying to locate the voice.
“I’m not shot, Gustav. Elaine is. You got Elaine. That’s her by the hatchway. She’s the one you shot, Gustav. You shot your wife.”
Cullen eased his head around the mast again. The Frenchman was standing silently in the wheel-house. His figure was rigid, his hands still on the frame.
Cullen shouted again.
“Gustav! I said that’s your wife over there by the hatch. Can you see her? Do you believe me?”
“I hear you, Steven Cullen.”
The words were empty, quiet, as if trying to make some kind of sense out of what had happened. The shock had not registered yet, but the news was filtering through his system.
Cullen pulled out his lighter, moved back, held the lighter up to his chest and flicked it on, throwing it to his left as he did. The big .45 roared as the lighter flew in the air, once, twice, the flashes sending their own paths into the night.
The first slug ripped the side of the mast, inches above Cullen’s head. The second shot was lower, jerking the still body of Elaine. Cullen dropped to his right, wheeling as he did so. He brought the Webley up in both hands, drawing a bead on Gustav as he squeezed the first round off. It was too soon, sprinkling the glass on the side of the wheel-house. The second was right on target. He saw Gustav shake as the bullet hit his body. Cullen’s finger squeezed again for the third time. Gustav’s hand with the gun was coming across, but he was too slow as the third shot tore into him, bowling him into the back of the house. The .45 flew from his fingers and clattered to the deck. Cullen was already moving, feet pounding down the deck, hand grabbing the railing. He burst through the door and levelled the barrel at the Frenchman’s head. Gustav was lying propped against the back wall. He was very white and there was a dazed look in his face.
“I’ve one still in it,” said Cullen. “Don’t budge. Not a centimetre.”
He saw where Gustav had been shot. Once in the top of the shoulder, the other in his upper arm.
“You’re a lucky man, Gustav. Luckier than Elaine. You got her in the head. She hadn’t a hope.”
Gustav looked blankly in front of him. Cullen could see his wounds were superficial and that he was more in shock than in danger. The Frenchman looked up and found the Irishman’s eyes.
“Why wasn’t it you?”
His eyes fell back to a vacant stare at the wall in front of him again.
“Why my Elaine? Why my Elaine?”
Cullen looked at him in wonder, then anger, then loathing. He listened to the whining hulk, remembering Elaine’s existence, her misery, her living death at the whims of this man. He could see Gustav’s plan to whine in remorse and look for sympathy in his tragic loss. Cullen’s voice was calm, soft, as he spoke.
“You must have loved her very much to treat her like the piece of shit you thought she was.”
Irony crept into his tone.
“A great life you gave your Elaine. It isn’t everyone who inflicts such misery on another human being with such affection.”
He waited for the remark to hit.
“Well, you can rest in peace on one point. The poor little bitch didn’t even know what hit her. You did a lovely fucking job on her.”
He stepped over to Gustav, put the Webley to the sweating head.
“Now, mate, you’re going to do a little bit talking because before Elaine left her lousy life, she told me a couple of things.”
He pressed the barrel against the man’s temple.
Gustav’s head twitched involuntarily. He squeaked a timorous protest.
“You fired six shots. The gun is empty.”
Cullen knew that. He also knew Gustav was terrified. He placed the gun in front of Gustav’s face.
“Is that so? You’re sure? Absolutely sure? You counted?”
The Frenchman swallowed. Cullen went on.
“Watch. Watch closely. See my finger? Watch it. See it tightening? Watch the chamber.”
Slowly he released his finger from the trigger. Then he curled it again. He took his time, watching the sweat drip over Gustav’s eyebrows, onto his eyelashes and into the eyes. Gustav didn’t blink. His eyes were fixed on the finger around the trigger. His breath stopped. Cullen squeezed the trigger. The hammer clicked, the gun jerked. Gustav blinked, shuddered and gasped.
“Well now,” said Cullen, “you’re right. It must be empty.”
He stepped back and looked around the wheel-house. On the table next to the wall lay a chart and instruments, the same Gustav had been working with earlier. There was a pair of dividers on the chart: long and pointed, the points sharp and lethal. Cullen reached over and picked them up. He folded the instrument and held it firmly in his left hand.
“OK,” he said.
He squatted, placing one knee on the floor. His eyes were level with Gustav’s. He placed the points under Gustav’s nose, pressing lightly against the fleshy upper lip.
“What is Larry Maguire up to? Where is he? When are you meant to see him?”
Gustav’s eyes widened, telling Cullen he was on the right track. He pressed the dividers harder. The flesh dimpled under the point, bringing a fresh torrent of perspiration to Gustav’s forehead.
“What does Maguire want?”
The Frenchman’s head moved, a slight shiver starting from the neck. Cullen could recognize fear. He knew it. He had felt it.
“Tell me,” he said quietly.
“You.”
The word was coughed from Gustav’s mouth. The big lips shivered and the breathing was fast and erratic. It took Cullen about two minutes to get the rest of the information he wanted. He stood up. Even as he did so, he could see relief come into the other in long, fast breaths.
“You have no chance,” said Gustav. “This Larry Maguire, he is a madman. He will take you, Steven Cullen, and you will not even know what is happening.”
Cullen thought for a moment. The thought crossed his mind that he should kill Gustav. One would be wiser and plenty of people would be better off. He would be doing the world a favour. But where would it stop? He chucked it from his mind. He had other things to do. He threw the dividers on the table.
“Shut up,” he said. “Worry about yourself.”
He had reached the door when he felt, rather than heard, the movement. He had one hand on the door knob, the Webley still in the other. As he turned, Gustav was rising, moving very fast. His eyes were on the table, focussed on the dividers. The left hand was already raised, aiming for the weapon. Cullen turned fast. The Frenchman shot forward and thudded against the far wall. He grabbed the lethal instrument and slouched against the steering wheel.
Cullen halted a pace from his adversary. The big man wasn’t beaten yet. Cullen realised how big he was. If Gustav pinned him to the wall, he wouldn’t have a chance. The Frenchman was moving again, the dividers coming up to stab at Cullen. The points, with Gustav’s weight behind them, were flying at him. That w
as what gave Cullen his chance. He dropped to the right. His left hand holding the Webley reached up to the full stretch of his arm. The Frenchman tried to check his rush, now in headlong flight to where Cullen’s stomach had been.
The blow began in Cullen’s back, ran up through his shoulder, along his outstretched arm, bringing the barrel of the gun on the arm beneath him. Gustav’s scream filled the wheel-house, catching in a gurgle as Cullen’s arm lifted again and smashed the barrel of the Webley across the Frenchman’s neck. The big man tumbled to the floor, raised dazedly on one knee, then slumped. Cullen stood over the crumpled figure, waiting. He did not move. Cullen sighed, a deep breath of relief. The fear and effort combined, exhausting him. He leaned back against the windscreen frame. In moments he gathered himself.
He went to the table with the chart and whipped open the small drawer underneath it. Pens, pencils, a compass, cigarette packets and matches spilled on the floor as he pulled the drawer out and flung across the cabin. He pulled the other drawer. Some girlie magazines and more navigational instruments flew onto the floor. There was one more drawer, which he opened carefully. The box of ammunition caught his eye immediately. He grabbed it, spilling the shells onto the table. Eleven in all. It would be a nice support in firepower to the Webley. Now all he had to do was find the .45 on the deck. He put the shells back in the box, shoving it into his pocket. He stepped over Gustav. The figure on the floor groaned and a leg twitched. The shoulder was bleeding more heavily, a pool of blood gathering beside Gustav’s neck. His head was awkwardly turned. Cullen guessed that the man would be in a lot of pain for quite a while. He stepped out onto the steps leading to the deck below.
Three faces almost level with his feet halted him immediately. They stared dumbly at him, waiting. He waved the Webley and they retreated.
“Your friend,” he said in his poor French, indicating inside the wheel-house, “he is all right. Not dead. But he needs help.”
They continued to stare at him as he walked slowly down and past them. He turned as he did so and covered them with the empty gun. When he reached the front corner of the wheel-house, he waved them up the stairs. Slowly they filed up, not knowing what they would find, not knowing what else to do. When they were halfway up, Cullen looked around for Gustav’s gun. It lay in the pool of light from the wheel-house. He picked it up, putting the Webley in his pocket, and pulled the box of cartridges out. Before he loaded the big handgun, he looked up to the wheel-house. The three fishermen were inside, standing in a semi-circle around where Gustav lay. They were talking and nodding quietly to each other, doing nothing.
Short Storm Page 16